Life in the Fast Lane
by yourfaceis24
Summary: Mainly Brittana, AU - mechanic!Santana, dancer!Brittany, with guest appearances from the rest of the cast. Brittany is on her way to visit family in Chicago, but her car dies in Lima and she ends up at a Ford dealership looking at Mustangs. M for smut.
1. Friday

**Title:** Life in the Fast Lane

**Rating:** R for language

**Pairing:** Brittana

**Spoilers:** None, I think

**Summary:** Thought I'd take a shot at mechanic!Santana and dancer!Brittany. Just a slice of blissfully blue collar life.

**Disclaimer:** If you count my student loans, I've never owned as little as I do right now. So: the characters aren't mine, show's not mine, etc.

**A/N: **Hey folks, thought I'd give a shot at this fic thing. I haven't written in, for serious, ages, so forgive me if it sounds a little weird.

So my AU takes place in a world in which Santana got stuck in Lima, but Brittany got to grow up in the Big Apple.

I'm writing Santana from the perspective of someone who was a mechanic. A lot of her voice is coming from me and my personal experiences, and her coworkers are influenced by some of the awesome people I've had the privilege of working with, so if everyone's OOC that's why. Plus, it's AU, so I figure I can get away with it, yeah? I had a tough time deciding if Santana would be as OCD as me about organization, but then I figured she'd probably be a pretty controlling bitch, so why the hell not? She's not as much of a BAMF as she is in the show, tho, because this is a really depressing time to be a mechanic and I haven't met anyone who hasn't been affected. Plus, she's older, I guess around mid- to late-twenties, so I figure she'd probably have grown up a bit.

Edit: So the cold medication wore off long enough for me to go back and switch up my language a bit. It was a little redundant before, I think.

* * *

"Son of a goddamned mother fucking..." The girl's voice trailed off as she watched a thin stream of blood blossom from her recently split knuckle. "'Cuz I really needed another fucking scar." Her eyes narrowed as she stared at the brake caliper she had been wrenching on. Unlike most of her coworkers, Santana was not above feeling anger toward an inanimate object. So she hauled off with her uninjured hand and punched the rotor for good measure.

"Owfuck." She shook out her good hand and, sucking on her knuckle, walked off to the bathroom to wash the grease out of the cut and put a band-aid over it.

It had to be at least 7PM on a goddamn FRIDAY and she was tied up late at the shop, _again_, because this asshole customer just could not keep his pants on or whatever and just had to have his fucking car _tonight_ or somehow the world would manage to stop spinning around him and fly off into some less douche baggy corner of the universe. The entire shop was deserted except for her and Don, the spineless sonofabitch service writer who apparently skipped the class in which they teach you how to say "NO," god dammit, to customers.

Whatever.

With her newly bandaged hand, Santana returned to her toolbox (blue, 72 inches from end to end, with a nice flat bench top, and every penny of _five freaking thousand dollars_), intent on putting an end to this hellish workweek as soon as humanly possible. She turned back to the car - a 2008 Ford Escape, so she reminded herself to break routine while disassembling the brake caliper 'cuz these sons of bitches don't go back together as easily as every other piece of crap car on the market – and took up her air ratchet to finish this stupid job and get the hell out of dodge.

She knew the guys already had a solid half of the bar across the street locked down and (please _God_) there would be a pint and a barstool waiting for her whenever the hell she got out of this stupid building, with its drab cinder-block walls and peeling paint and soiled concrete floors and _fuck this place_. She slammed the air ratchet down on her toolbox, snatched the rotor off the car, tossed it in the trashcan, slapped the new one on, replaced the brake pads, grabbed her air ratchet back up and spun the bolts back down. Just to be safe (because she was rushing, and she'd been burned for rushing one time too many), she pulled out a torque wrench and double-checked the bolts. Satisfied, she maneuvered the tires back into place, tightened down the lug nuts, dropped the vehicle down to ground level, and got in to take it for a quick test drive 'round the block.

The brakes didn't go out, so that was good. She ran it through the car wash, leg bouncing against the brake pedal while she waited for the automated machine to finish up, spun it around to the service lane, jumped out, turned in the paperwork, threw the keys at Don's stupid shitface, and suddenly she was back at her toolbox.

Sighing with the pleasure that only the end of an ungodly long workday can bring, Santana wiped down her tools and placed them carefully back in their respective drawers. With a quiet _snick_ she turned the lock on the box and (thank you JESUS) called it a day.

"Have a good night, Santana," Don said pleasantly as she walked out of the building. In place of a verbal reply, she flipped him the bird. He wasn't too concerned – he got that a lot.

* * *

"I fucking love you guys," Santana sighed as she settled down on her barstool and wrapped both hands around the pint glass that Puck handed her as soon as she walked into the building. Slumping her shoulders, she ducked her head down to take a sip. "Although, Miller Lite? Really?"

"Not my fault you couldn't finish a damn brake job fast enough to make it over here before the end of happy hour," Puck said with an unapologetic grin.

"Do not even begin to sass me, Puckerman, I swear to God..." Santana grumbled into her beer but chugged it down because beer is fucking beer, thanks just the same, and she usually drank PBR at home anyway but really that was no one's business but her own.

Finn stumbled over to the bar, laughing over his shoulder at some stupid joke Mike had just told that somehow had every dude around him howling. Santana decided she didn't really care to know.

"What's up, lady?" Finn asked, smiling with a level of charm that only the halfway-inebriated can manage.

"Same shit, different goddamn day," she said back, as resigned as she'd been the day before. It was just bullshit and depressing really, being laid up in this god forsaken cow town. She'd had dreams, dammit, big stupid dreams for what would happen after high school. None of them included Lima fucking Ohio. But whatever.

"Yeah, it is what it is. But hey, you're here now, so let's all get wasted!" Finn's good humor was contagious, and by the time Puck chucked her over her fourth glass of watered down piss Santana was laughing along with the rest of the guys as Mike regaled them with tales of his more recent customers.

Finn, Puck, and Mike all worked across the street with her, but while the first two occupied stalls on either side of hers Mike got a cushy desk inside the dealership which he used to get customers to sign their lives away in exchange for the latest and greatest vehicles to roll out of Detroit on four wheels. Despite the hordes of unemployed or underpaid salesmen filling up bars around America at this very moment, Mike was actually doing pretty well for himself. He was rolling on the high of one of the best months of his six-year career. Puck, Santana, and Finn had not been so fortunate of late.

"You missed out, Santana," Mike said with a laugh as he leaned up against the bar beside her, "had a really good one today. I think you would've appreciated the view."

Ah, a girl. While her sexuality wasn't exactly disclosed at work, pretty much everyone had figured it out on their own. For all that mechanics are supposed to be crass blue-collar unintellectuals, this group had turned out to be far more perceptive than she'd expected. It didn't take them long to put two-and-two together when her last "roommate" had showed up at the dealership and violently chucked a duffel bag full of silicone and leather at her head and then stormed out.

"Yeah? I dunno, Mike, I'm pretty picky these days." Mike chuckled and Santana snorted into her beer glass. Picky? In Lima? Really? Slim pickings had created a level of standards as follows: Tits? Check. Ass? Check. Legs? Check. Get 'er done, or whatever boys are always hollering in crowded urinals throughout middle America.

"Not much to get picky about with this one, San." He shook his head ruefully, glancing off into the middle distance. "Super tall, all muscle, blue eyes, _blonde_, snazzy dresser. I'll holler at you if she comes in for a follow-up on the Mustang I almost sold her today."

Santana blinked. What the hell was a broad like that doing in this shithole town? "Seriously, dude? She can't be local."

"Nah, came in from NYC, some kinda dancer chick. I think she was on her way to visit family when the old clunker took a shit. She had it towed in or whatever, was asking what she could get for a trade. Said she wanted to sleep on it, so we'll see."

"Nice, dude. Yeah, let me know, I kinda wanna see this chick." Santana shook her head and took another pull on her beer. "Don't get a lot of ladies around these parts that fill that particular bill. Gimme something to think about at night at least, huh?" She elbowed him roughly in the side and downed the last of her pint.

"Alright, fellas," Santana announced, "I gotta roll before I get so fucked up that I try to drive home and wake up with my car running and still in drive," she said with a pointed look at Puck.

"What?" he asked defensively, only slurring his words a little. "That's only happened like twice, so I dunno what you're talkin' about." He was already swaying, _on his fucking barstool_, so Santana shot him a raised eyebrow and punched him in the shoulder.

"We still on for tomorrow?" she asked them. Finn and Mike both grinned at her as Puck attempted to nod and promptly fell off of his barstool.

"Whatever, I'll be here," Puck said from the floor. "One of you bitches give me a hand up, Jesus..."

Not one to be caught giving a rat's ass, Santana murmured as quietly as she could to Mike, "You're gonna take him home, right?"

Mike smiled reassuringly and bid her good night.


	2. Monday

**Disclaimer:** The original still stands. I don't own anything but my soul, and really that's only because it's still tied up in the middle of a massive bidding war.

**A/N:** So I re-read that first part, and seriously there were f-bombs scattered around like a freaking _minefield_, so I think I'm gonna try to tone it down a little (I'll probably fail). Sorry if I made your eyes bleed or whatever.

Notes on Brittany: I'm having too much trouble writing Brittany as this like super vacant ditz, so I'm pretty much gonna go with the theory that Brittany on the show is like a young Phoebe (from Friends) and I'm gonna say that my Brittany, like my Santana, is older and tamer and probably obnoxiously OOC but whatever. This is how I want to write her. The end.

Also, I'm taking some liberties with the 2011 Mustang. I haven't driven a convertible one yet, so if there are any technical discrepancies, well, my bad.

* * *

With a series of angry beeps, Santana's alarm clock hollered at her to get her ass out of bed already, god, why are you begging to be fired do you hate money or something? The woman in question cracked open one eye and inspected the time displayed in bright and obnoxiously glaring digital numbers on the clock's screen (5:30AM, oh hell no) and with a snort swatted the offending machine onto the floor and under her bed, where she could no longer make out its muffled warnings.

"Psh, as if," she muttered, then squeezed her eyes shut and fell almost immediately back to sleep.

At exactly 7:43AM Santana shot up in bed and proceeded to _freak the fuck out_. "Shit shit shit, you have got to be kidding me," she mumbled under her breath as she scrambled to get dressed for work. With a shrug, she threw on last Friday's only-slightly-dirty uniform and ran out into the kitchen, where she snatched up a slice of bread and some sort of cheese or whatever the hell that thing in her refrigerator was (please be cheese, God, please).

"They are going to fucking fire my ass!" she yelled as she barreled down the highway in her 1991 Toyota Camry (because, really, there's just no room in this industry for brand loyalty or whatthefuckever), honking and weaving through the sad remnants of rush-hour traffic.

Whatever happened to young dumb and enthusiastic Santana Mother-Fucking Lopez, who was actually capable of getting out of bed at a reasonable hour, is really anybody's guess. Not-so-young, still-kinda-dumb, and completely unenthused Santana Mother-Fucking Lopez, however, had been late every single Monday for the past 3 months running, and was about to lose her fucking job, so she'd better get a better fucking alarm for fuck's sake. Jesus.

The worst thing had to be the fact that her car suffered a _massive_ exhaust leak and could be heard coming for literally miles, so she couldn't even roll up and discreetly enter the garage through the back door all the while maintaining that she'd been there since 7, thank you very much.

Nope. That bitch was _waiting _for her as soon as she walked through the door. God. Damn. It.

"Good afternoon, Santana. I'm afraid I'm going to need to speak to you." Her boss looked her up and down, critically inspecting her disheveled appearance, from her rumpled uniform shirt to the piece of bread still sticking out of her mouth. "In my office, please."

_Shit._ And it was only fucking Monday.

* * *

"Santana Lopez, please come up to the sales tower."

_Oh, for the love of God, what now? _With a sigh, Santana snatched off her latex gloves and headed for the showroom. It wasn't a terribly long walk up front, but it was long enough for Santana to do some simple mental math and realize that, shit, that was Mike's voice, so there was a pretty decent chance she was about to get a good look at potentially-gorgeous dancer chick.

"Yeah?" she asked as she walked up to Mike, who turned to her with a smile.

"Santana, thanks for coming up so quickly. This nice lady had a few questions about the Mustang she was interested in, I thought you could help her out?" He winked over the woman's shoulder as WHOAMYGOD-GORGEOUS-dancer-chick turned around to face Santana.

What. This chick could not _possibly_ be real. Come on. Real women don't have eyes as blue as the center of an extraordinarily hot flame, or legs that start somewhere up in heaven and continue all the way down to earth, or hair like corn silk, or whatever other tired clichés _normally _don't apply to real life. Real women don't wear fucking _jeggings _in fucking LIMA, OHIO, with an absurdly thin tank-top through which she could see the barest hint of impossibly cut abs. And they certainly don't strut around in this miserable little cow town in 4-inch heels with some kind of Armani or whothefuckever suit jacket slung over their shoulders.

Santana swallowed against her suddenly-dry throat. "Oh, cool. Um, hi." As discreetly as possible, she wiped her hands on her pants and made an attempt to straighten up at least a little. "I'm Santana Lopez. Nice to meet you, Misses...?"

"Oh, no, it's just Miss. But you should totally call me Brittany anyway." Gorgeous-dancer-chick stuck out her hand with the single most heartbreakingly beautiful smile Santana had ever witnessed in her entire fucking life.

She winced. "I would literally love to shake your hand right now but um..." she wriggled her soiled fingers in the other woman's direction, "... you're just so _clean._" She watched in abject horror as that smile began to slip from the blonde's lips and immediately decided that she needed to catch it, rightfuckingnow, before it hit the ground because it would probably leave a dent, it was that goddamn tragic. "Compromise on a fist bump?" she blurted.

And just like that the beautiful, bright smile was right back where it belonged: on Brittany's beautiful, bright face. Santana didn't even flinch as she knocked her bruised and bandaged knuckle gently against Brittany's softer, paler fist.

"So what kind of questions did you have for me?" she asked, completely incapable of stopping the smile that was spreading across her own face.

"Well, I pretty much don't know anything about cars, so whatever you can tell me is helpful," Brittany replied, somehow oblivious to the fact that Santana literally could not tear her eyes away from her lips, which was kinda rude, but also 110% involuntary.

"I have a better idea. Let's go for a test drive, and I'll tell you everything I know about these guys." Santana shot a look at Mike over Brittany's shoulder. "You just figure out what color you feel like driving, they're all lined up right outside those windows, right there, so you can see there's a pretty wide variety, and Mike and I will meet up with you in like ten seconds, won't we, Mike?" She smiled dangerously at the taller man, and felt a deep satisfaction as she saw the barest glimmer of fear flicker behind his eyes.

"Oh yes, just give us a quick second to get everything set up, and I'm sure Santana wants to get cleaned up and I'll just go get the tags and we'll be right back."

Before Brittany could even blink, Santana had Mike by the tie and was dragging him around the corner. Huh. Must have been important. The blonde turned to the vast array of Mustangs lined up outside of the massive picture windows which lined the showroom.

"Mike," Santana hissed as she peeked around the corner. Sweet Jesus, the woman looked as good from the back as she did from the front. This was just ridiculous. "I don't even care, she gets VIP or you will not live to see the light of another day, so help me. And I'm going on lunch, if anyone asks." She let go of her death grip on his tie and dashed off before he could formulate a reply.

Back at her toolbox, Santana yanked off her soiled uniform shirt and fished a clean one out of the bottom drawer, then practically ran into the bathroom where _of course_ Puck was taking a leak but whatever, they had long since abandoned any vague semblance of boundaries. "Going to lunch," she yelled back as she dried off her hands and rushed back out into the shop.

Puck narrowed his eyes suspiciously. It was only 10:30 in the morning.

* * *

"So what did you have in mind?" Santana asked, slightly out of breath, as she walked back up to the impossibly tall, even more impossibly beautiful woman. God must have been showing off when she was born. Santana shook her head against her traitorously sap-tastic thoughts.

Brittany shot her another one of those ohmygod-soamazing-can'tlookaway smiles and gestured to, of course, the single most hideous Mustang on the lot. Santana sighed. She would end up cruising around downtown Lima with the most gorgeous woman ever to walk the earth in a fucking baby-puke green ragtop Mustang. Whatever.

"Mike, get me the keys to 17698, willya?" she called over to the salesman, who was standing a careful distance away with a set of dealer license plates in his hands.

He reappeared moments later at her elbow and handed the keys to Brittany. Santana grabbed up the plates and together they walked out of the dealership toward the – ugh – monstrosity of a vehicle Brittany had picked out.

"You alright with driving a stick?" Santana asked.

Brittany smirked back. "Sure, sometimes. I should be fine. Why, did you wanna drive?" she replied, and was that just the barest hint of a drawl?

Santana glanced at the other girl over the hood of the car. She was not flirting with her. That would be even more ridiculous than everything else so far. "Nah, you should drive, you're the one who'd be buying it. I've driven plenty of these guys before."

"What's your favorite one?" Brittany asked curiously as she opened the driver's door and slid into the leather bucket seat.

Santana joined her in the snug cabin. "Really, I like all of the new models. The older ones were cool too, I guess, but they made a lot of changes to the body that I think look pretty hot, plus we got that new motor out now. If you pull the lever under the dash I'll show you while its still cold."

"Where?" Brittany asked innocently.

"Like, right between your legs, under the steering wheel."

Brittany shifted her legs from side to side, peering under the dash panel, but then shrugged back at Santana. "Nope, don't see it. Can you get it?"

Get the fuck out of town. Santana smothered a grin as she reached over between the blonde's – seriously, those things could not possibly be legal. Chick's legs were longer than the amount time Santana was going to spend in the lowest level of Hell for the way she was looking at Brittany right then. Her dark eyes caught the other woman's and with a swift yank she pulled back on the release. The resulting _pop _as the hood jumped up shocked both women out of their brief reverie. Santana shook her head and hopped out of the Mustang, Brittany following close behind.

"OK, so, we've basically got two options for the Mustang, which I'm sure Mike already talked to you about." Santana unlatched the hood and propped it up, then pointed at the engine. "You, because you look like a pretty intelligent human being, picked out one of the V8s." Brittany laughed, and once again Santana was entranced. "So umm... yeah, go big or go home, right?" she mumbled.

"That's the idea," Brittany replied brightly. "So that's like the motor, cool." She nodded towards the car while Santana stared at not-the-car, seriously, not even remotely.

"Yeah..." Santana shook her head, _again_, seriously, this was beyond ridiculous. "Anyway, yeah, the new 5.0 V8 is actually pretty decent on gas for all the muscle it's got packed in there, plus everyone's always telling me that V8s give you a smoother ride and..." she trailed off, once again, distracted by the thought of taking a "smooth ride" anywhere on earth with five-foot-gorgeous, who had sidled over and was now standing rightfuckingnexttoher, peering into the engine compartment.

"Awesome. I wanna drive it." Brittany snatched the hood-prop out of Santana's hands and dropped it down, closing the hood as gently as possible. She hopped back into the driver's seat and, blinking and a little dazed, Santana settled into the passenger's seat.

Brittany turned the key in the ignition; with a quiet roar, the car fired up. Santana glanced over at her. "It's pretty nice out, you should definitely put the top down."

The blonde grinned. "Hell yes, I should. Where's the button?"

Santana smirked and reached over, brushing lightly against Brittany's thigh as she pressed the button on the center console. They both looked up and watched the top roll back automatically.

"Awesome, I've always wanted to go topless."

Brittany just about put her damn foot through the floor boards and Santana snatched at her seatbelt as she was pressed back into the car. Hell.

* * *

When they finally rolled back up to the dealership, Santana's hair had completely abandoned the bun she normally kept it up in and was little better than a tangled mess atop her head, but _naturally _Brittany's was still perfect. Both women were laughing their asses off and Santana turned her head to look the blonde over.

"Hey, I still got a few minutes, you wanna drive this thing across the street and grab lunch with me?" she asked.

"Yeah, I am pretty hungry." So that was basically that. Brittany parked the Mustang, they jumped out, Santana hollered a greeting at Jenn-the-bartender, and they settled down to lunch.

Honest to God, Santana had absolutely no idea what the fuck they talked about, but she spent her time alternating between laughing her ass off at whatever story Brittany was telling and staring in wide-eyed fascination at the blonde's mouth as she delicately chewed on whatthefuckever she had ordered for lunch.

Santana spared a brief, mournful glance at her glass of soda, which was definitely not beer, dammit, then finished up the last few bites of her burger and grabbed up the check that Jenn had slipped between them. Brittany reached for her purse but Santana shook her head and (seriously, the guys across the street would have just about shit themselves if they'd seen this) pulled out her own wallet, wincing at the garish pink bunnies that peered up at her from it's exterior. She tugged out thirty bucks (because if you tip well, sometimes the bartender will remember you and you'll rack up an eighty-five dollar tab in one night and not have to pay a single penny) and slid it across the bar to Jenn. Then she tugged out a copy of her business card, one that didn't have someone else's phone number scrawled on the back of it, and slipped it under Brittany's hand.

"I gotta get back to work, but you give me a call if you can come up with any more questions about the car or anything, ok?" she said.

The smile that lit up Brittany's face just about sucked the breath out of Santana's lungs. "Sure, thanks."

They left the bar and Brittany dropped Santana off at the back door. "Thanks again, for the ride-along. I had fun." Then she buzzed off in her brand new Mustang, undoubtedly to sign her paperwork and disappear off into the fucking sunset or some shit.

Santana sighed and pulled out her phone to text Mike. It looked something like this:

"Drinks on u tonite, bitch."


	3. Monday Night

**Disclaimer:** Still not mine. I do, however, own a box of tissues and a sizable quantity of generic-brand Dayquil/Nyquil equivalent.

**A/N:** There are parentheses _inside_ of my parentheses. My fic looks like a freaking c_alculus_ problem (almost). I apologize for this.

So some Faberry randomly appeared in my fic. Sorry about that, too. Also, there are hints of Santana/every single woman in Lima.

I wanna take the opportunity to say that I'm trying kind of a first person / omnipotent third person narrative. The writing is really supposed to reflect Santana's stream-of-consciousness to an extent, so if it's not making sense then it's probably my fault. **FallingSlowly18** asked if I'd switch over to Brittany's POV and I really don't think so, sorry; I think Brittany's a lot harder to write than Santana, but I might go back later and write like an outtake or something for her.

* * *

The day came to an end prematurely when the parts for the last car she was working on got lost in Narnia, which was fine really because _hello_, there was a bar literally right across the street. So with a pleased grin, Santana hauled ass out of the shop before 5PM for possibly the first time in weeks – never mind that that was mostly the result of having to stay late because she'd recently become incapable of actually arriving on time.

"See you guys over there," she tossed over her shoulder to Puck and Finn, who were teamed up on an especially resistant lower ball joint. With a single glance, Santana took in Finn's absurdly huge body dangling from the largest pry bar she had ever seen as Puck prepared to swing a massive sledge hammer at the vehicle's lower control arm. THAT was going to end well. Oh yes, definitely.

It was the work of minutes to swing her car through the roundabout and park it over by the bar, and seconds to down her first beer. Idly she chatted up Jenn while she waited for the boys to get out of work.

"So... dish," Jenn started, with a laugh at the end.

"Nothing to dish." Which was really not something you ever heard from Santana Mother-Fucking Lopez, to be completely honest.

Jenn rolled her eyes incredulously. "That blonde, with the Mustang. Seriously, girl, after y'all left I walked up to every single person I know in this bar and made them tell me how pretty I am, 'cuz after I saw her, Hell, I needed it."

That managed to pull a reluctant grin across Santana's lips. "Yeah, she was pretty fuckin' gorgeous."

"So what the hell happened?" Jenn demanded. "Details, come _on_."

"Nah, she was in from out of town, bought that car today," Santana muttered, pushing her beer back and forth across the bar. "Gone by now, I'm sure."

"Shoulda gone with her," Jenn suggested.

Santana just about fell off her stool, she was laughing so hard. "Are you shitting me? I just met the bitch, Jesus Christ, Jenn."

The bartender grinned at her. "Thought it might get a laugh outta you."

"BITCHES." And that would be Puck. Right on time.

"Where the Hell is Finn?" Santana asked as he settled onto the stool next to hers. "And how are you already drunk?"

"Whatever, I'm good. Finn'll be over in a minute, had to go raid the first aid kit." Puck pouted at Jenn. "Can I get a Bud, babydoll?"

Ugh. _Babydoll_. He was drunk. Which was surprising, because Santana could've sworn she remembered polishing off the fifth of JD he kept in his toolbox all by herself sometime last week.

"Had to raid the first aid kit?" she asked with a smirk.

Puck dismissed the issue with a wave. "Whatever, it's just his face, he'll be fine as soon as he stops being the world's biggest bitch about it."

Santana cackled at her friend's misery. Really, they could be sharp as shit sometimes, and it honestly surprised the crap out of her when they were, but for the most part Puck and Finn were the dumbest cavemen Santana had ever met. Secretly she really did love them, in spite of their stupid faces and their unerring ability to injure each other at least weekly. Although to be fair, Finn was clearly the least intelligent of the two, if only because he'd allowed fucking _Noah Puckerman _to swing a goddamn sledge hammer at his head. Seriously.

A loud ringing snapped Santana out of her thoughts. "What the hell is that noise?" she asked nobody in particular.

"Dude, it's your phone, come on, don't tell me it's been that fuckin' long since anyone's bothered to call your ass." Puck chugged down his beer as Santana fished the annoying little machine out of her pocket.

"Shut the fuck up, Puckerman. Drink your damn beer." She peered at the unknown number curiously, flipped it open, and cautiously (because you never really knew with her phone) said: "Yeah?"

"Santana?" No. Fucking. Way.

"Brittany?" It took a metric shit ton of effort to keep the vast majority of the incredulity she was feeling out of her voice. Puck choked on his beer.

"Yeah, hey, what's up?" The other woman's voice was bright and cheerful and provided an interesting contrast to the drab barroom in which Santana was standing.

"Um, not much, you?"

She didn't catch the reply because at that very moment Finn flung open the door, caught sight of her, and essentially roared, "Santana Mother-Fucking Lopez, what the hell are you doing on your phone? Puck just wailed me in the goddamn head with a freaking _sledge hammer_, someone buy me a damn beer, _fuck_."

"Hang on," Santana muttered into the receiver and then gently covered it with her hand. "Dude, shut the fuck up, douche bag. Puck, first round's on you, seriously, you hit him in the _head_. I'll be outside. Gimme a damn cigarette." She snatched Puck's pack off the bar and fumbled for a lighter as she stepped out the door.

"Sorry about that. It's been a day," she said once she was settled outside and could actually hear herself think.

"No, it's fine, I'm probably interrupting."

"Not even a little."

"Oh, okay then. I was just wondering, what are you doing tonight?"

This had to be a joke. "Um, nothing, I guess," Santana replied hesitantly, and took a long drag on her now-lit cigarette.

"You wanna take me to dinner?" Brittany asked, and Santana almost choked on the smoke she had just inhaled.

"Uhhhhh..." What? Fumbling for something polysyllabic to say, Santana blurted out, "Yeah, sure, absolutely. Where?"

"Oh, no, this is your town. I have no idea." Brittany laughed through the phone and _seriously_ how the hell was it just as mesmerizing as when she laughed in person?

Santana's mind scrambled for someplace, anyplace in Lima fucking Ohio where she could take a girl like Brittany. "Umm... Italian work?"

"Perfect," Brittany replied. "Pick me up at 8? I'm at the Hilton."

Of course she was. _Shit._ "Yes, absolutely, I'll be there. Call you when I pull up."

"Great!" Brittany chirped. "See you then!"

"Bye." The line went dead in her hands and Santana sighed out the last of her cigarette. _Shit._ The doors swung open almost of their own volition as Santana walked back into the bar, and there were Puck and Finn, _fucking wrestling _in the middle of a goddamn things first. _"_PUCK. I need your stupid car, right fucking NOW!"

* * *

It had taken all of 15 minutes, if that, to fly home in Puck's 1995 Lincoln Mark VIII, which was really only a half-step up from her POS but at least it's muffler was still attached. It took about an hour to shower, change, put on a conservative amount of makeup, and stare forlornly at her hair before deciding to pull it back into a ponytail. By the time she was ready to go, it was exactly 7:10. _Shit._

She puttered around the house, then fiddled with her phone, and when she finally ran out of activities to attach cute verbs to she bolted out of the house and started just... aimlessly... driving around the neighborhood, trying to kill time. She really didn't want to look like an idiot by getting there too early, or like an asshole by showing up late. So at 8:02PM (because Santana Mother-Fucking Lopez is still too damn badass to _really_ be perfectly on time for anything) she rolled up in front of the Hilton and re-dialed Brittany's number.

"Hey." The voice on the other end of the line was breathy and light and it kind of made Santana's heart burn a little, but only because she was apparently regressing into a 12-year-old girl.

"Hey," she replied back just as gently. Dammit. What the hell? She was _literally_ turning into a fucking 12-year-old girl. "So I'm here, if you're ready."

"Oh! I'll be right down!"

"Ok, see ya." Santana closed her phone and _really, _were those fucking _butterflies_? This nonsense needed to stop, right now, because shit was about to get seriously out of hand.

Suddenly, the hotel's double doors swung open and the bellhops held them for the honest-to-GOD single most beautiful woman ever to stand on two legs, or walk on four, or whatever various combinations of limbs cultures all across space and time had adopted for the purpose of movement. Miss-Fucking-Universe swept breathlessly over to Puck's POS, which Santana really couldn't see anymore because somehow she was standing outside of it, and thank God she'd put it in park, and she opened the passenger side door for Brittany, who elegantly swept the hem of her low-cut little-black-dress out of the way and slid into the low vehicle.

And just like that she was back in the driver's seat, and what the hell had just happened? Santana glanced over at Brittany, watching as the taller woman buckled herself into the vehicle and then turned to beam a smile _directly into Santana's fucking SOUL, _Jesus Christ on a cracker.

"Uhhh..." Seriously? This again? Santana coughed quietly into her fist and shifted the car into drive. "So I kinda expected you to jet out of town once you got your new ride."

"Yeah, I was going to, but then I remembered that I was on my way to my parents', so..." Brittany giggled a little, and Santana found that it was about as contagious as the freaking swine flu. "Thought I'd hang around town for another night."

Santana nodded and immediately blocked off that entire train of thought before her day-dreaming could cause her to lose all focus and send them both careening into a tree or whatever. "Cool," she said, at a loss for words. Seriously, what the hell?

"Yeah, so where are we going?" Brittany asked brightly, and Santana spared a brief thought for the intelligence level required of someone who would willingly step into a stranger's car at 8PM on a Monday night in Lima, Ohio. Like, for real.

"Little place on the edge of town. It's about the best we have around here, but really it's just generic Italian food." Santana stared out the front of the vehicle, vehemently fixing her gaze onto the road and not onto the woman sitting directly to her right, who she could just barely see out the corner of her eye and – yeap, those were definitely rumble strips she had just run over. _Focus_. "They have really good bread sticks, though," she commented lightly.

"Sounds great," Brittany replied, and there was that goddamn smile again, _shit._

"Listen, I hope I'm not completely out-of-line here, but you are seriously the most distractingly gorgeous thing I've ever laid eyes on," Santana blurted out. Great. Well, 15-year-old boy was _almost _a step-up from 12-year-old girl. "Like, in the world," she finished lamely.

That smile was literally going to kill them both, so Santana forced herself to blush at the road, dammit, not at Brittany, and just get them to dinner in one piece. What the hell was wrong with her? Santana grimaced as they pulled up to the restaurant and suddenly those ridiculous fucking _butterflies _(seriously?) started going to town on her stomach. She darted around the outside of the car and pulled the door open for Brittany, whose face would probably break eventually if she didn't stop smiling all the damn time.

They stepped up to the door and were almost immediately seated (because somehow between slowing down so that she wouldn't be early and rushing so that she wouldn't be late Santana had had the foresight to make reservations (like a boss)).

They made their way through appetizers and main courses alike, and as Santana relaxed she gradually realized that A) Brittany knew a lot more about wine than she did, B) she knew a lot more about bread sticks than Brittany did, and C) they both really needed to learn a lot more about each other.

"So, seriously, since you already know about me, what do you do?" Santana asked.

"I mean, I dance, up in New York City," Brittany replied.

Santana shot her a raised eyebrow. "Like, dance, or like _dance_?" she asked with a slowly-widening grin.

"Yeah, because I never get that joke." Brittany swatted at the shorter woman's shoulder. "No, I dance, and usually with my clothes on. Mostly contemporary, some musical theater."

"Hey, very cool," Santana replied, trying not to spend too much time thinking about how Brittany would look while dancing without her clothes on.

The small talk continued back-and-forth and then settled into an easy, comfortable rhythm of conversation. Brittany was obnoxiously easy to talk to, and every bit as bubbly and stereotypically blonde as Santana had initially suspected. But she wasn't horribly annoying, which was new, and after about an hour of mindless chatter Santana realized that she really, honestly liked this chick.

The waiter came to clear away their plates and they'd just about finished deciding on desert when suddenly:

"Santana. Mother-Fucking. _Lopez._"

Quinn Fabray. _Shit._

Santana sighed and glanced up from her menu at the visibly pissed-the-fuck-off pillar of hate looming over her. "Quinn. How's things?" she asked, gritting her teeth against the tension her unintended third wheel had brought into the room with her.

"_Things _are just _great_, now that you're gone."

Hell, it was gonna be like that, huh? Santana shot an apologetic glance at Brittany and moved to stand up. "If you'll just excuse me right quick?" Brittany's eyes sparkled with silent laughter as she watched Santana lead Quinn outside of the restaurant.

"What the Hell is your problem?" Santana demanded, as soon as they were out of earshot.

"Nothing in particular _now_," Quinn replied with a smirk. "I was just stopping by to say hello, that's all. We did decide to stay friends, didn't we?"

"Fuck off, Fabray." Santana crossed her arms and glared at the other woman, who was just intelligent enough to feel the briefest flicker of fear.

"Whatever, Lopez. You're a twat. Catch you later." Quinn waved as she walked back into the restaurant, sat down on a bench, and waited for a table.

Santana sighed and trudged back to where Brittany was still examining the desert menu. She was just about to sit down when SUDDENLY:

"Santana-Mother-Fucking-Lopez!"

_Sweet Jesus, give me a goddamn break... _Santana turned around as slowly as she possibly could, attempting to delay the inevitable just a little bit longer but NOPE, there she was: Rachel Berry, in all her hobbit-like glory. _I literally hate my life_. She swung her attention back to Brittany, smiling apologetically _again_ before grabbing ahold of Rachel's bicep and beginning to lead her out the door.

"Wait," Brittany cut in, before they could get more than a foot away from the table. "Why does everyone keep calling you that?" she asked curiously.

"Well, I mean, it's my name," Santana explained.

"What?"

"Yeah, my parents like never gave me a middle name or whatever, so I had it changed a couple years back. 'Santana Lopez' is a totally badass name and all but it just doesn't sound enough like a bitchslap to the face."

"Oh, okay, cool. Hey, you wanna split a fudge brownie with me?" Brittany asked, and that amused smirk never did manage to drop off of her face.

"Yeah sure, sounds great. I'll be right back, then." And with that, Santana turned and hauled the midget out into the foyer. "Okay, what the fuck is your deal?"

"Nothing really, I was just confronting you to display solidarity with Quinn, whom I am now sleeping with."

"Augh, I literally hate you both so fucking much right now." Santana sighed again and shot Rachel a glare not unlike the one she had delivered to Quinn only minutes earlier. Rachel was noticeably less immune to it. "Please just... go die or something."

"I certainly will not!" Rachel yelped. Santana tossed another glare her way, just because the first one didn't seem to take as well as she had hoped. "I will, however, go back into this restaurant we're standing outside of and share dinner with my beautiful girlfriend, who you dumped a year and a half ago because apparently you don't know a good thing when you see it."

"Well that's where you're wrong, Berry," Santana said with a sneer, "'cuz I sure as shit dumped your ass too."

Rachel choose to ignore the entire first half of that sentence and powered on, "Yes, well, and I never did thank you for that, did I?"

"Ugh, please stop talking, seriously." Santana waved Rachel away. "I get it, you're with Quinn, you guys go find a quiet corner where you can just both melt into a puddle of sheer fucking annoyance or whatever, have a horrible night, I hate you both, I promise I will kill you if you bother me again tonight, et cetera." She pushed past her tiny melodramatic nemesis and out into the dining room, straightening her blouse as she walked back to her table.

"Ok, I think we're good now," she muttered as she settled into her seat.

Brittany grinned and waggled her eyebrows, which was possibly the most lascivious-yet-adorable move Santana had ever seen. "Lady troubles, Ms. Lopez?"

The brunette chuckled. "_Old _lady troubles," she explained.

"Wait, they didn't look any older than me," Brittany said, lowering her voice and scrunching her brow in confusion. "Are you calling me old?"

Santana grinned. "No, not even a little." She reached out and laid her hand gently over the other woman's. "I meant old like, from-my-past old, not _old_-old."

"Hmm..." Brittany shot Santana an appraising look, as if attempting to judge whether or not she was telling the truth. "You wanna get out of here?" she asked, and the question literally leapt up out of left field and smacked Santana across the face.

"Uhhh..." Come _on_, Lopez. For real? "Yeah, sure, lemme just get the check."

Once they were all settled up (had Santana seriously paid for a meal _twice _in the same day?) they strolled leisurely back out to the car. It was an overall pleasant ride back to Brittany's hotel, and for the most part Santana managed to stay on the road as they exchanged small-talk and short stories, all the way up until she pulled in front of the doors to the lobby.

"Well, here you are..." because apparently Santana's life was a horrible 90's rom-com so she figured she may as well stick with the script.

Brittany giggled a little. "You wanna come up?"

Get. The fuck. OUT. "Uh, yeah, sure..."


	4. Monday Night, Tuesday

**Rating:** NC-17 for this chapter

**Disclaimer:** I make no claims now, nor have I ever made any claims, to any aspect of the Glee franchise or whatever, which is in fact not mine. And stuff.

**A/N:** Thanks so much for all the positive feedback I've been getting over this thing! I am equally unashamed and egotistical, so that's like crack for me. Keep it coming.

Sorry this one's kinda short or whatever. This is the smutty chapter, so that's why it took so long to get out. I've been fighting off a cold for the past few days, and I just really didn't wanna half-ass this one so I decided to wait until I was feeling better. Although, to be fair, updating is probably gonna slow down now that I'm done with class and I don't have any exams to procrastinate around.

Things I hate about writing same-sex smut (even though I'm a big gay dyke): pronouns, pronouns, and pronouns.

My favorite words to read in smut are lave and cant.

Lastly: the bane of my existence has always been the quest to find a tasteful way of saying cunt.

* * *

"Soooo..." They were definitely standing in the middle of Brittany's ENORMOUS hotel room's fucking LIVING ROOM. Seriously, it had it's own living room. Even worse, Santana couldn't seem to find anything better to do in said living room besides shifting her weight awkwardly from one foot to the other.

Brittany giggled. "You're cute," she said, and Santana figured that was a more flattering analysis than _ridiculously uncomfortable _or _absurdly stupid_, both of which she was feeling at that particular moment.

"Thanks?" she replied, and for whatever reason it ended up coming out as a question.

Brittany stepped right into the middle of Santana's personal bubble. "You're welcome," she answered, somehow changing the meaning of those two little words simply by altering the pitch of her voice.

Santana's jaw dropped open, just a little, and suddenly her breath was ghosting over Brittany's lips, which were now hovering millimeters from her own. She watched herself reach up and tangle her fingers gently in a lock of almost weightless, cornsilk (ugh, _cornsilk_?) hair.

"I'm gonna kiss you," she murmured, and began to continue with: "I hope you don't mind," but was cut off because somewhere between _hope _and _mind _her lips had crashed against Brittany's, and her hands had become entirely caught up in the other woman's endless blonde locks, and all she could see was the color blue, stretching on into eternity, even though Brittany's eyes had shuttered closed at the same instant as hers.

She definitely did not remember breaking apart, but Santana gradually became aware of her own fingers, which were lightly tracing Brittany's collarbone, and WHOA there were Dancer-Chick hands up her shirt.

"Um, hi," she muttered, glancing down at their feet and blushing.

"Hi," Brittany smiled, and removed one hand from Santana's midriff just long enough to tip her chin up before her fingers were dragged back to the darker girl's hip by whatever force had also brought Santana's hand to the back of Brittany's neck.

For one long, burning instant, Santana was completely entranced by eyes that were, somehow, the exact shade of electric blue normally reserved for lightning storms and tropical oceans.

"Uhhhh..." and this time she really didn't even care that Brittany had once again robbed her of the ability to communicate with any amount of intelligence. Finally managing to tear her gaze away from those _endless blue orbs of endlessness_, Santana instead focused on the other woman's lips, smiling around perfect white teeth, which left her only slightly less dumbfounded. "So like, I really thought you were straight when I saw you at the dealership?" Once again, Santana wasn't really sure why that came out as a question.

"I don't discriminate," Brittany replied with a suggestively. "Or wait, does that bother you?"

Santana scowled at the blonde's lips, which she still hadn't managed to look away from. "Hell no." Santana Mother-Fucking Lopez sure as shit wasn't threatened by any man OR woman on God's green earth, so Brittany's sexual preference actually made no difference whatsoever to her.

The blonde giggled, "Good," and then grabbed Santana by the wrist and hauled her off to the bedroom.

Together, they collapsed onto the ridiculously enormous hotel bed in a tangle of lips and limbs and laughter. Santana's arms slid around Brittany's waist as the taller woman latched onto the lapels of her dress shirt and pinned her to the bed with a grin that was just toothy enough to make Santana swallow nervously.

But then it was too difficult to remain nervous as Brittany traced her jawline with kisses, her fingers working deftly at the buttons of Santana's shirt, and the brunette was reaching around to tug at the zipper of Brittany's little black dress. She'd just begun to slide the straps down perfectly sculpted, toned shoulders when the blonde all but ripped her shirt off, and suddenly it was raining clothes in the hotel room. They both kicked off their shoes almost simultaneously, and then Brittany was all but naked and straddling Santana's hips, and the brunette craned her head up to nip at the curve of Brittany's throat, and the blonde's nails raked down Santana's back.

A tiny growl bubbled up from the smaller woman's throat as she yanked Brittany's bra off and pulled the blonde's hips roughly against her own, grinding almost violently. Swiftly, she rolled them over so that she was looming over Brittany, and then it was her turn to grin devilishly and grab the blonde's wrists, pinning them over her head to the bed and canting her hips into the very center of the taller woman's being.

Santana allowed her body to sink into the hollow between Brittany's legs as she nipped leisurely at creamy pale skin. Only a half-beat behind her, the blonde's hands were traveling up the curvature of Santana's back, and then there was the briefest of pinches as her bra came undone and went sailing through the air to join Brittany's in some poorly lit corner of the room. Santana kissed reverently down to her breast and then with no preamble whatsoever sucked one of the blonde's nipples into her mouth, gently flicking her tongue across it.

The blonde's head was now pressed firmly into the mattress of the bed as a tortured moan slipped out of her mouth, and she reached down to pinch gently at one of Santana's swollen nipples, and Santana was having trouble remembering when exactly she had released Brittany's wrists, but then she realized she really didn't care because Brittany's other hand was now teasing at the waistband of her panties and her knee was pressing though the thin layer of cloth and rubbing against Santana's clit, so that was pretty much okay.

"Augh!" Brittany cried out in frustration, and before Santana could even begin to chuckle gloatingly she was being flipped over onto her back and Brittany had ripped her underwear off, and really she had no idea whatsoever where it went but there were the softest lips she'd ever felt sucking at her pulsepoint, and fingers pressed against the dampness pooling between her thighs.

"God..." The word emerged from Santana's throat between pants, and she couldn't believe the sound because, really? She literally had never moaned like that, and she certainly had never reached blindly behind her to grab at a headboard at the sensation of two extraordinarily long fingers slip-sliding into her and she'd _absolutely _never grabbed a fistful of blonde hair to drag ruby-red lips up and crush them violently against her own while at the same grinding down against that _hand_ God never never.

"Fffffuck, Britt," she panted, and she didn't have to see the other woman's grin because she could feel it against her own slack jaw. Suddenly the lips were gone, and Santana had about half a second to gasp out "What?" before she felt the most exquisitely soft tongue flicking gently against the tiniest nub she'd ever had the pleasure of summing up her entire existence with. "Oh God, oh fuck..." Her breaths were coming quicker now, and she was dragging her nails across the blonde's shoulder blades, and her calves were tangled between pale thighs, and everything was a mess of caramel and vanilla skin and slick slick heat and

and

_Oh God don't stop, _"please don't stop," _I'll die if you stop IsweartoChrist, _"Jesus," _FUCK. _And suddenly every muscle, every nerve in Santana's body became aware of Brittany and only Brittany, and she seized the taller woman's hair between her fingers as her entire body curled toward that one tiny piece of her that was all of her and "FUCK."

Santana unfolded, panting, and relaxed against the bed, armfuls of blonde dancer draped languidly over her torso. "Don't even," she breathed, and Brittany smiled the most adorable, beautiful smile and Santana sighed. "Whatever, that was amazing as fuck."

Brittany's smile grew even wider, and she snuggled into the brunette's shoulder, dragging the rumpled comforter over their intertwined bodies. "Thanks," she said, and actually _winked _at Santana.

It wasn't until Santana's eyes began to drift shut against her will that it occurred to her that she was actually falling asleep, in a bed, wrapped up in the arms of the most beautiful person she'd ever laid eyes on. And that was totally, 100% alright.

* * *

Santana did not go to work on Tuesday.

They spent the rest of Monday night and all of the following day alternating between dozing in each other's arms and waking up just long enough to roll around on the bed and scream out each other's names, with occasional breaks for food courtesy of the Hilton's room service.

Brittany answering the door to let the hilariously awkward bellhop bring in breakfast, while wearing nothing but a white sheet, would rate among Santana's top ten favorite memories for many years to come.

And the way Brittany looked, snuggled against her chest and smiling as they watched some horrible Disney made-for-TV movie, would remain her number one favorite memory for decades. Because Santana was just a goddamn sap sometimes. But whatever.


	5. Hell Week

**Rating:** M for language and stuff

**Disclaimer:** My bottle of rum and I would like you to know that I do not own these fake people.

**A/N:** Soooo... sorry that this took kind of a while. It was a little tough to write, for personal reasons. I got to make fun of myself in it, though, and that's usually a good time.

Also, I feel like I should mention that most mechanics get paid on a "flat-rate" system, which means that they only get paid based on how much work they actually do in a day. If a technician does 6 hours of work in an 8 hour day, then he or she "turned" 6 hours. Message me if you want me to rant for pages about how I really feel about this system (I hate it).

* * *

"So, I have to leave soon." Brittany's voice, hesitant and sweet, still managed to loom up out of the darkness and bitchslap Santana across the face. She took it like a champ and sighed in reply.

After a quiet moment, Santana said, "I thought you might."

"Well, I was supposed to be at my parents' like... four or five days ago."

"Yeah."

"You should come with me."

_What. The. Hell._ "Wh-" Santana didn't usually splutter, but now was probably as good a time as any other to start. First Jenn-the-bartender and now Brittany? What, seriously, _what _was even wrong with like everyone else in the world that they could not see how horrible of an idea it would be to walk away from her entire life in Lima to go live with some drop-dead gorgeous dancer-chick in New York City?

Well, when you put it that way, it didn't really sound all that bad, actually. But whatever.

"Britt..." Santana shifted in the other girl's embrace. "I mean, I have like a job, and friends, and this whole life here..."

"Yeah."

"I mean, I really like you, but it's just kind of a lot..." Santana trailed off into silence. She knew she was rambling just a little, but it really was just a _lot_, and she was having trouble convincing herself that it was really that bad of an idea.

"It's okay, Santana. I really do understand." Brittany closed her eyes and snuggled further into the other girl's embrace. "I'll have to drive through here on my way back from my parents, so maybe we can hang out again then."

"That would be cool." They hadn't really talked about whatever was going on in this _relationship_ or _one-night-stand _or whatever the hell they had going on. To be perfectly honest, Santana wasn't sure that she actually wanted to talk about it. She'd begun to get the feeling that Brittany was really just this massive hurricane force-of-nature type chick, who'd sweep into a town, a person, a heart just as quickly as she'd sweep right on out.

And Santana Mother-Fucking Lopez was entirely too old for any kind of tragic heartbreak nonsense. So rather than deal with her burgeoning feelings like an adult, she simply rolled Brittany over onto her back and tried not to think about anything other than blue eyes and blonde hair and legs that went on for miles...

* * *

Wednesday morning, Santana got dressed and went to work, and Brittany packed up her shit and left.

Santana spent the entire day pretending to be okay with this. She turned approximately 3.5 hours, made maybe 60 bucks, slept through her two-hour lunch break, and left to go to the bar at around 4 PM.

Aroundabout 5:30, the rest of her coworkers trickled over to join her at the bar. Puck took the stool to her right, and Finn blockaded her from the left.

"You alright, chica?" Puck asked, the barest hint of concern weighing down his brow.

"What have I told you about calling me chica, fuckstick?"

"Oh, okay, good, just checking." Puck laughed a little in relief, and ordered a round of Jack Daniels for the three of them. He didn't usually buy for Finn, but he was kinda still paying him off for the head trauma or whatever.

The rest of the night continued like just about any other. The three of them sat around at the bar, talked some trash about the shop, bonded over their mutual hatred of their boss, compared hours, and eventually parted ways. Puck was blitzed again, so Finn drove him home. Santana left the way she came in: alone.

* * *

By Friday, it had become apparent even to her two caveman friends that Santana was definitely _not_ alright. Mike had known since Wednesday.

"Okay, seriously, lady-dude." They were at the bar again, and Puck thunked a pint of Miller Lite down in front of Santana, and she rolled her eyes and glared at the sweat beading on the side of the glass. "This is like the third day in a row. What the hell's going on?"

"Nothing." She was aiming for nonchalance, really, but the snarl kinda gave it away.

Puck snorted. "Yeah, okay."

"C'mon, Santana, you can totally talk to us about stuff." Finn slung a meaty arm over her shoulder, but then she kinda maybe growled at him, so he moved it because _shit_ the girl looked like she might actually bite him.

"Augh, you're seriously not gonna leave me alone, are you?" Santana chugged down half her beer while staring pointedly at Puck over the rim.

"Nope," he grinned, and ordered her another. Mike shifted nervously at his side, eying the front door in the event that Santana decided to get violent. He'd known her for a while and, while she usually didn't swing at Puck, you could never really be sure.

"_Fuck,_fine." She slid her empty glass down the bar and accepted the fresh one from Puck. "It's that damn chick. She like got into my head or whatever."

Puck and Finn sighed in unison. Mike frowned and took a half step back. He had kinda introduced them, after all. "Sucks, chica," Puck said as Finn tentatively patted her on the shoulder. Santana didn't even have the energy to feel offended.

"I mean, _whatever_, she's just a chick. Can we just do a shot or something?"

* * *

So then Santana basically slept all weekend. Come Monday, she was such a mess that her boss didn't even say anything when she rolled in to work an hour and a half late, with her hair down and sticking up all over the place and her uniform a wrinkled mockery of it's potential professionalism.

* * *

"Santana, seriously, no, _seriously, _this has got to stop." It was just her and Puck at the bar today. He shot her the most concerned look he could muster from over the rim of a shot of Jack Daniels. "Do what you gotta do, quit this job, drink for another week, pack up and run away with her, _whatever_, but you gotta stop killin' yourself over this chick."

Santana took a long pull on her beer and ignored him.

"Come _on_, this is ridiculous!"

"Shut the fuck up, I can't _do_ anything and you know it," Santana snarled. Puck sighed. They both continued to drink in silence.

* * *

By Wednesday, the ache was beginning to subside and Santana was able to focus enough at work to pull down a solid 6.5 hours before heading over to the bar again.

Thursday was even better, and by Friday she was back up at her usual eight and half hours per day, and had even made it in to work on time. Shock and relief abounded throughout the dealership.

On Saturday, Santana packed up her tools and went to wash up for the night. When she came back to lock up, _Brittany_ was peering interestedly at the underside of the car she had jacked up in the air, bent slightly at the waist to account for the fact that yeah, okay, so Santana was a little shorter than some people, so she kinda sorta didn't jack it up as high as maybe some other people would have. Whatever.

"It's definitely not time for your oil change yet," Santana deadpanned at the statuesque blonde standing in front of her toolbox.

Brittany smiled and hopped gracefully up to sit on the top of the box. "It's not?" she asked innocently. She was sitting with her legs splayed just slightly apart, feet dangling idly off the edge. In spite of the dark mire of _feelings _she was drowning in, each one more uncomfortable than the last, Santana's mouth felt about as dry as the Sahara.

"Hi," Brittany said with a grin in her eyes, and Santana was beginning to understand why she suddenly felt like crying.


End file.
